


Consummation

by LittleLinor



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: (... I promise), Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Body Horror, Consensual Kink, Discussion/Depictions of trauma, M/M, Reincarnation trauma, Snuff technically, Vore, Xeno, gratuitous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7633942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magical creatures au.<br/>Ibuki starts the long work of separating self-destructive urges from cathartic desires, and sets out to reclaim the experiences that have forcibly shaped his life and mind. Chrono finds himself getting more invested in the whole proceedings than he'd expected or feels quite comfortable with.</p>
<p>(It's vore, you have been warned, but no lasting harm is caused. Technically)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consummation

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I'm not going to pretend to have anything witty to put here. I wanted to write vore so I made an au of my own au to make it possible. You can't get more self-indulgent than this.  
> This universe still roughly follows the plot of [my fire emblem au](http://archiveofourown.org/series/501670), except in a slightly modified universe where half the cast is magical creatures, the being Chrono defeated was a legit god and he's inherited some of its power (although it hasn't all manifested), and a god equivalent to the deletors put a reincarnation/respawning curse on Ibuki to use him for its plans without having to make a new toy if he got killed... and then left him behind when shit went down. Two hundred years ago. With predictable effects on Ibuki's psyche.  
> There's more worldbuilding than this, but I don't have the courage to make an infopost after writing this giant fic, so ask me if you want details!
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS IN THE TAGS. The fic is fluffy and romantic, but it's also extremely graphic in terms of blood/body horror, and does deal with trauma a lot.

Ibuki

It comes as a gradual thing, an idea that pulls at your strings, an intrusive thought that brushes at your mind, whispering unwelcome desires at the smallest, most innocent things.  
Watching him eat. Handling a knife. Any time you catch yourself in contemplation and remember the pain of losing, again, the person you'd foolishly allowed yourself to care for.  
Applying the concept of self-preservation to yourself is still new and alien to you, but you try for his sake. Somehow, your inevitable resurrection isn't a valid excuse to put yourself in harm's way according to him, and you'd argue, but after all you put him through, you think you owe him a little peace of mind.  
And besides, after losing him, you're understanding a bit more why he wouldn't want to risk it, even if he knows you'll be alive again.  
But sometimes your mind can't help but focus on the weirdest things, and sometimes you want—  
Something that you don't know how to explain, or express. But it's a kind of ineluctable that feels good to your heart and mind, almost soothing, where before the most positive thought you'd ever had about it was _good riddance_.  
And so it creeps into you in the way you'd been told desire would when you reached the age of ten, back when you were still a normal human. Slow, inexorable, and eventually impossible to ignore. You take to acknowledging it and pushing it aside.

Somehow, he notices.  
You're not sure what you did wrong, whether you stared too much or too long, or whether your reactions when his teeth sink shallowly into you betrayed you. But after a while, you catch him eyeing you suspiciously, and within a few weeks he makes use of a moment when you _were_ , in fact, letting your thoughts stray, and pushes you down on the bed with hands on your shoulders from where you were sitting, sits on your lap, and glares at you from above, keeping you pinned.  
“All right. Out with it.”  
“… what do you mean?”  
His eyes harden.  
“Don't play around, you know exactly what I mean. You keep spacing out, something's been on your mind for _weeks_. So tell me what's going on.”  
You hesitate.  
“… didn't you say you wouldn't keep secrets from me anymore?” he asks, more worried than judging, and that's what pushes you into talking, because you don't want to hurt him.  
“… it's of no consequence. I'm not hiding anything from you, I promise. It's just a recurring thought… I didn't want to upset you with it. I'd rather deal with it myself.”  
He stares at you in silence for a moment, squinting slightly, as if trying to see through you.  
And then releases one of your shoulders to flick lightly at your nose.  
“That's dumb. Talk to me.”  
“Chrono...”  
“If it's something you think I'm not gonna like, then all the more reason I want to hear it. Tell me.”  
You look away, hesitating. How can you tell him about this, when he's been so invested in keeping your safe? And how do you tell _anyone_ about this, really, when the concept itself is obscene?  
How do you tell someone that your heart beats stronger when you think of his teeth impaling you, that you shiver at the thought of them tearing you to pieces, that dying in his hands or mouth feels _safe_?  
“… it's just a thought,” you try to evade, voice quiet.  
“ _Kouji_.”  
You wince.  
“… it's hard to explain.”  
“Then take your time and I'll listen. But try.”  
You cave in.  
“… then… let me explain fully. A partial explanation would give you the wrong idea, I think.”  
He nods, bringing his hand back to your shoulder.  
“All right.”  
Somehow, being trapped on your back helps. You take a deep breath.  
“… I think I want you to kill me. It's not what you think,” you add hastily when he frowns, “I'm not trying to harm myself, or remove myself permanently. I don't know how to explain it, but somehow the thought feels… soothing.”  
You trail off, trying to put the feeling into words. To your relief, he doesn't look disgusted. His face is serious, but thoughtful rather than angry.  
“… I'm not sure why it's different from when I wanted to disappear,” you continue. “I suppose being harmed or killed when I hate myself or think I deserve it would be a relief either way, but this isn't the same thing. I've spent enough years feeling _that_ to know how that feels.” You pause, hesitate, then reach for his chest with your forearm. “I've thought a lot about it… and I can promise it's different. I think… I've had a lot of experience with dying… but none of it has ever been happy. At best, it was relief from torture. Or spite. But this… this feels warm.”  
For a moment, he stays silent. You fight not to look away, instead focusing on your fingers against his chest, on the feeling of your fingertips rubbing against the fabric of his shirt.  
“… so it's not that different from when I bite you, then?”  
You blink. Then chuckle, suddenly, as your brain processes the question.  
“I suppose, yes.”  
He looks at you in silence for a few more seconds, then sighs and left himself fall on top of you, head against your chest.  
“… Chrono?”  
“I'm fine. Just need to… think about it for a bit. Digest it.”  
You hold back the temptation to use his words to bounce into a more precise explanation, no matter how appropriate they are.  
Instead, you breathe slowly, the slight dizziness of _finally_ getting those words out reaching you.  
“… Chrono...” you finally call out, quietly.  
“Hm?”  
“There's another reason the idea is appealing to me.”  
“… go on.”  
“… I like the idea of giving myself to you completely.”  
He hisses softly, and turns his head to press his face again your chest.  
“Why do you _keep saying things like that?_ You're cheating!”  
“… because it's the truth.”  
He groans, then pushes himself up again to glare at you. You gaze back, comfortably pinned under his hands.  
A few tense moments and he deflates, a bittersweet, resigned yet fond sigh breaking out of his lips before he bends down to kiss you, hands sinking and gripping into your hair.  
“Damn you,” he whispers, a breath away from your lips. “Fine. But I can't promise you anything. I don't know if I _can_.”  
You nod. He shakes his head lightly and kisses you again.  
“… but I'll think about it,” he finally concedes.  
This time, you're the one who tilts your chin up to catch his lips with yours.

 

Chrono

It takes you a couple of weeks to bring it up again. After that first confession, he hasn't tried to talk about it, and since he's stopped losing focus, you're tempted to just let the subject drop.  
But you promised him you'd think about it, and that means not just thinking about it, but an honest answer.  
The thing is, you're not sure you like your honest answer.  
When he'd first brought it up, you'd thought you would never be able to do something like this. The idea was just outrageous. And you've never enjoyed killing, the part of you that always clings to its humanity had piped up. Maybe you could force yourself for his sake, but you seriously doubted it.  
But the more you've thought about it, the more the idea brought chills to your spine, and you're pretty sure those aren't the chills people would expect.  
Knowing he'll come back changes everything.  
You hate that it does. Knowing he won't be dead permanently should be no reason to consider this; you still don't want to _harm_ him, especially when you've seen firsthand the effects of all those deaths and resurrections that he tries to ignore. His body and general existence might not be threatened, but those experiences still take their toll on his mind and his heart. You've fought so hard to spare him more of it; the idea of doing it _now_ should be unthinkable.  
And yet. Knowing he'll be back lights in you an overwhelming feeling of _power_ , of potential. You _can_. Technically. You _can_ snuff out the life from his body and still _have him_ , experience that power and not lose the person most precious to you.  
It's dizzying. And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you want it.  
It's a far cry from “doing it for his sake” and you don't like what it says about you.  
But on the other hand, _that_ 's a feeling you've been all too familiar with in the last couple of years. You're used to doubting yourself. You're used to not feeling human anymore.  
And if this can somehow bring him relief or closure—if it can make him _happy_ , you don't want to deny it to him.

“How do you want me to?” you ask him, out of the blue.  
You've been sitting at the table, leaning against him as you wait for your stew to cook, and at first he only tilts his head slightly towards you.  
“Hm?”  
“What you asked me the other day.”  
A restless second passes, and then suddenly his entire body tenses, starting to straighten on reflex.  
“I haven't decided yet,” you warn him. “I'm _considering_ it, but I need to know everything first. So, _if_ I say yes, what do you want me to do?”  
After a suspended pause, he nods.  
Takes a deep breath.  
… doesn't say anything.  
You wait for roughly thirty seconds and roll your eyes before leaning your weight more heavily on him.  
“You brought this onto yourself, you know? Now stop running away and tell me.”  
“I...” His voice falters and he takes a shaky breath, shaking his head slightly. “… would you eat me?” he finally asks, his voice flat and deadpan.  
You blink.  
“… _what!?_ ”  
He flinches, and starts to pull back, but you reach for his hand and squeeze it, keeping him in place.  
“No, okay, I get it. I'm listening.”  
“It's fine, it was too much to ask to begin with...”  
“No. Sit down and talk to me.”  
You squeeze his hand again, face turned towards him. After a few seconds of hesitation, he sighs and turns towards you. You twist on your chair a little, shift forward, and slide your knee between his legs, catching one of them between yours.  
He finally looks at you, blushing and withdrawn.  
You smile faintly. Reach for his cheek.  
“… I'm just surprised, okay? I expected—I dunno. Stabbing you. Something like that.” You pause, take a breath to hide the shivers that almost ran down your back as you thought of the next part. “The way you talked about it, I thought you wanted me to hold you while—” (you catch on the words, then kick yourself) “… while you die.”  
He squeezes your hand slightly at the words, his eyes flitting away.  
“The feeling is not altogether different,” he finally answers, “if...”  
He trails off and you chuckle, pushing hair from his face.  
“C'mon, don't back down on me _now_.”  
“… if you are still actively working at my body as I do,” he finishes, composing himself in response to your teasing. “Is my distress this entertaining to you?” he finally asks, a touch of dry humour finally reaching his voice.  
You grin.  
“Hey, it's not every day I get to see you this shaken.”  
He stares, face blank.  
“Really.”  
You smile, push yourself up, and let your hand slide to the front of his neck as you kiss his cheek.  
“This kind of thing doesn't count,” you whisper in his ear, and you can't help the little kick of satisfaction at the shiver you feel under your fingers.  
“That… is a rather arbitrary rule.”  
“That's why it's a rule.” You kiss his neck before releasing him and standing up, taking a few steps to the pot happily simmering over the fire to stir it. As soon as you're sure it's in no danger of burning, you walk back to him, pulling him to face you and nudging his legs open again so you can stand between them and get your hands on the back of his head. “So,” you continue, absently combing. “You're gonna have to give me details. I can't picture it to know what I can do or not if I don't know what exactly you want.”  
He sighs and rests his forehead against your chest.  
“Do I really need to do this?”  
“Yes. It'll make _me_ feel more sure you know what you're getting into, too.”  
After a moment, he sighs.  
“All right.”  
“Let's start with what you said earlier.”  
“… which part?”  
“What did you mean by—'working at your body,' if I heard that right.”  
The heat from his face and neck reaches even through his hair to your fingers.  
“… you probably understood that I meant for you to be in dragon form… if you are truly eating me, I don't expect… to survive for very long… considering… — _Chrono, please—_ ”  
“Keep going.”  
He shudders.  
“I…” he forces out, voice breathless, “I don't expect you to leave me on the ground as you work on a small mouthful. I've seen you… eat game as large as humans before… I know I would only take you… a couple of bites… I thought...” He shudders again, taking in a shaky, hissing breath. “I thought… being crushed… between your teeth… would be a good way to die.”  
He hides his face deeper against your chest. You conceal your own shudder by taking a deep breath, your hands rubbing soothingly at his scalp.  
“… that's why,” he continues, to your surprise, “if I'm in your mouth when I do… it's not so different from being held. I won't… be alone. This way, it remains… a nice thought.” He swallows. Takes in a slow breath. “And… if it's possible… you could finish chewing and swallowing what's left of me… even if I'm… not there anymore.” An exhale. “… that way, I can truly be given to you completely… my life… and my body both.”  
He shuts up then, and you realise that your fingers have tightened in his hair, holding on to him with a mix of emotional arousal and desperation.  
“… so that's why you said that the other day, huh?” you whisper, and at this point you don't even care that your voice is shaking too.  
He nods, his arms coming to circle your waist.  
“… is it too much?” he asks, and somehow his voice sounds smaller and more vulnerable than it had during his entire description.  
You're done for, and you can't make yourself care.  
“… no. I want—I want to give that to you. But… I might need some time.”  
He nods.  
Pulled by the tugging on your heart, you lower your head to his hair.  
“… how are you so...”  
“… I'm sorry—”  
“No! Don't. It's not what you think.” You take a deep breath, press your cheek against his hair. “That was… it's really sweet, okay?” Your eyes are stinging a little. “… thank you. For trusting me.”  
“… it's nothing...”  
“Stop looking down on yourself.” You breathe in the scent of his hair. “… I'll try.” And then a thought hits you. “… are you sure you'll be safe? If your entire body's destroyed...”  
“I—… it has been burned to ashes before. Nothing has prevented the resurrection so far.”  
He stops.  
“… not for lack of trying, huh?”  
“… I'm sorry...”  
“It's okay.” You pause, swallow. “… you're gonna try to come back, right? You're not gonna...”  
His arms tighten around your waist.  
“I wouldn't leave you for the world.”  
You take a moment to compose yourself, then nod against his hair.  
“… I trust you.”  
He gasps.  
“I—thank you.”  
You hold him close, for a few minutes, before finally releasing him, moving back towards the fire.  
“C'mon, let's eat before this boils down anymore.”

 

Ibuki

It's weeks again before things actually happen, partly because it involved travelling, and partly because he wanted to wait for his friends' visit before doing anything.  
“I know we have friends here,” he'd said, “but… Tokoha's the one who can help me most. She knows what it's like.”  
You don't argue. That he asked for this at all reminds you that you'll be leaving him alone for a while, and it takes a lot of willpower to not just give in to guilt at what you see as abandonment, now that you're aware of the issue.  
But he's agreed, and going back on it now feels wrong. You have to trust him to be okay.  
You ask him anyway, just to be sure.  
“Are you sure you will be fine?”  
He smiles faintly.  
“I dunno about _fine_ , but I'll be okay. As long as I'm not alone.” He chuckles. “You can expect to be squeezed to death when I get you back, though.”  
You smile.  
“Wouldn't that be counterproductive?”  
“You know what I mean, smartass.”

The visit comes and goes well. There's a slight tension of anticipation or apprehension, sometimes, but for the most part you all quickly relax into comfortable banter, catching up, the chance to spar together again.  
It makes you happy to realise that, in a way, they have become your friends too. Chrono may be the one to bring you together, but the course of the war and the time since has somehow made you… one of them, somehow.  
It makes you feel slightly awkward, but also infinitely happy. It's been too long since you had something resembling a family.  
You still catch small changes, though. He's more affectionate with you in public than you're used to, although you're not sure whether it's because they don't count as “public.” It's casual and sweet, like his hand randomly moving to pet your hair as he talks, or in a moment of downtime, or sitting behind you and draping himself over your shoulders.  
It makes you feel safe, after the first few times that you spend worrying that Shion and Tokoha will take it badly. But they accept it without commenting on it.  
You think you could get used to this life.

When they leave for the next town over, ostensibly to continue their sight-seeing adventure (and to be fair, that part is real, and you know it; the trip had been planned long before the subject of your little experiment came up, but you know their lingering in the area is for Chrono's sake), some of the tension returns.  
You can't define it as good or bad. It feels, in a way, like you remember the feeling of growing up being. Anticipation of something ineluctable, laced with both curiosity and a hint of fear, and the feeling of time flowing behind you. Something that simply _is_.  
Two days later, the rain starts falling, and in the middle of the afternoon, he quietly takes your hand.  
“Is now okay?”  
Your breath stops without so much as a gasp.  
“… yes.”

You pick up rain cloaks and a bag, him his communicator screen, lock and ward the house carefully, and set out, walking only a few steps away for safety before he transforms and pulls you up into the sky.  
“I know a place in the forest that'll be dry,” he explains. “But the rain will blanket out the noise… forest folk won't interfere, but humans would be a problem.”  
You refrain a shudder at the implication.

It doesn't take you long to reach the forest with him flying at a decent speed, and you land next to the edge. He transforms back, tucks his hair under his hood, and offers you his hand.  
You take it and walk hand in hand through the first sparse trees, then deeper into the forest, until the rain stops and the world seems to disappear, as if the muffling leaves created a magical barrier of their own, encasing a space with its own rules.  
Considering what he said about forest folk, you wouldn't be surprised if it was true. But your own magic lies in different places.  
You wonder if he has a treaty of sorts.  
Within a few minutes, the ground is dry, leaves and moss cushioning your steps. On your own you might have been wary, but with him there, it feels surprisingly comforting. Like the warmth from a hot hearth on a winter night.  
“… aren't the trees too close together for you to transform?” you ask quietly.  
He smiles, small and gentle.  
“We're not there yet.”  
You follow him through more mossy paths, until the thick weave of trunks seems to thin, and before you know it, you enter a large space that your conjured light barely reveals, the trees on the other side mere silhouettes.  
You swallow quietly. Send another light ahead.  
The ground, when you look at it, is a soft carpet of moss in greens and browns and the occasional red. You catch sight of a few mushrooms, and maybe a lone flower here and there.  
He steps forward.  
“… Chrono, isn't this place—”  
“Not anymore. It's empty—not enough people.” He turns to look at you. “I got permission to come here a while ago. Well,” he adds with a chuckle, “technically I could have taken it by force, but...” He turns back to the forest chamber, looking up at the dark canopy that you're now sure _is_ a barrier. “It's sad when it's all empty… so using it is good. They'll be happy too.” A small smile in your direction, again. “And, well. I did… kind of want a special place for this. I think it's fitting.”  
You nod. To be honest, the place still gives you shivers, but in a way, it's part of why he's right. It makes things both secret and solemn, intimate and ceremonial.  
It makes the consumption about to take place metaphorical as well as literal, and you think you like the way it makes your heart beat.  
He pulls you towards him, catches your second hand, and backs towards the center of the ring, taking you with him. It's soft and careful and inescapable, and the way you follow after him without a second thought makes you think this place might not have lost its magic after all. Not that you would have run away, but his eyes have you in their hold, and you feel like a charmed prey headed to its predator, barely aware as it obeys a will not its own.  
You almost wish he would charm you right into his mouth, moving there without your own control, but you want to do it yourself. Freely, and consciously.  
He lets your joined hands fall between you when he reaches the center, and you lean forward against him.  
He squeezes your hands.  
“… Kouji.”  
“Hm?”  
“Are you sure?”  
You let the feeling sink into your bones. His hands, his body against yours, the strange weight of the clearing around you. The breathtaking, terrifying knowledge of what's to come.  
You take a deep breath.  
“I'm sure.” You release it. “I think it will help.” Move away just enough to look at him straight-on. “What about you?”  
“I'm good.” He smiles, and it's gentle, but there's a glint blooming in his eyes that makes you shiver. “Especially here.” He lets go of your hands, and trails his fingers up their backs, then your wrists, then up your arms, slowly, with all the casual intensity of a predator in love. You're suddenly aware of your entire body, of its presence, of it being a _thing_ , and you're breathless and dizzy already. “It's going to be special, okay?” he finally murmurs as one of his hands reaches your neck, the other hooking behind your shoulder.  
He's looking up at you, and yet you feel so small.  
Almost reverently, he starts loosening the laces keeping your shirt closed.  
You gasp.  
“Chrono—”  
“They're coming off. I'm not biting through them.” A small smile, and he pets at your neck a little before going back to work. “Let me.”  
You nod, your body already on the edge of shaking.  
He unties your cloak, and then the shirt goes off, brushed up your chest by careful hands and trailing fingers, and pulled over your head. You shiver as his breath rolls over your skin, just barely warm in the mild ambient air.  
“Boots,” he whispers, and you nod and step out of them and onto the soft moss that gives way, you realise, just slightly under your feet.  
Your breath is light, too light.  
It makes no sense. You've had scarier, more painful deaths before. You've been made to wait for some of them. You've learned to take them in stride.  
Why on earth are you trembling now?  
He reaches for the edge of your trousers at your waist, and you lean into his hold, breathless.  
His hands still. Settle on your waist instead.  
“Kouji?”  
“I'm fine, go on.” He rubs thumbs into your waist and you sigh. “I don't know why I'm reacting like this...”  
He smiles. His eyes are still burning, but his face is gentle.  
“Hey, it's all right. It's… nice.”  
You stare at him. There's an edge of sheepishness on the corner of his mouth, but the rest of him seems serenely consuming, his aura wrapping around you as if compelling you, restraining you. A blade of sharpened desire.  
You've rarely felt wanted as much as you do now.  
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think this was the right choice. I feel...” He chuckles softly, almost self-depreciatingly. “… does it scare you?” he asks quietly.  
You shudder.  
“… yes,” you say, because you refuse to lie to him. “But it's not a bad thing.”  
Claws dig into your waist.  
“I love you,” he whispers, using the anchor of his claws in your skin to push himself on tiptoes to kiss you.  
You whimper, hands coming up to grip his arms, with no intention of pulling them away.  
“I...” You breathe. “Chrono...”  
“I'm here,” he murmurs. “And I'm gonna do it. I _want_ to do it.” He steps back down to look at you again. “Are you ready for that?”  
You're shaking and you don't care.  
“Yes. _Yes_ , I am. Please.” You breathe in, deeply, trying to find your voice. “Don't… don't let my fear stop you… when we get to it.”  
He looks at you in silence, then retracts his claws and reaches up to comb hair away from your cheek.  
“Okay. I've got you.”  
“… thank you.”  
He smiles, pets your cheek again.  
“Take the rest off, then. I'll take care of those.”  
You nod and slide your trousers and underwear off while he picks up your discarded clothes and folds them casually, stuffing them in his second messenger bag. The boots go with them, and you hand him the rest, trying not to shiver at the feeling of warm air brushing against your entire body.  
There must be a reason he wants to do this straight away. You don't ask, opting to trust him to know his own reasons.  
The bag gets tossed to the side, and he moves close to you again.  
“Give me your hand.”

You hold out your arm, and he takes your hand in his, lifting it towards his mouth to kiss it.  
You swallow. His lips brush over your wrist, against the pulse, against the meatier part of your palm, against the back when he turns your hand over. You feel hot, both your face and neck, while so much of your body shivers as if chilled.  
His fangs come out and pierce the skin around the base of your thumb, spilling blood over your hand and wrist.  
“Chrono—” you gasp.  
He sucks lightly.  
“Aren't… aren't you transforming?” you ask, trying to force some focus and stability into your head and voice.  
“I need to work myself up,” he explains quietly. “The taste gets addictive fast,” he adds with a small grin, eyes glinting in the shadow cast by his hair and lashes as he looks up at you. “Especially when it's yours.”  
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second.  
He sucks on the wound again, harder.  
There's blood on his lips when you open your eyes again, redder even than his hair, a biting contrast to the green still shining from his darkening eyes. You think, suddenly, of how much of it will soon be smeared on his mouth and teeth, and shudder. The amounts your imagination provides would be enough to cover even that of something his size, and even then, you know so much of it will go down his throat, barely squeezed out of the flesh holding it.  
Your knees feel weak.  
His arm goes around your waist.  
“I'm here. Can you stand a bit longer? I need to let go to transform.”  
You nod.  
“… I've seen worse,” you try to joke.  
He smiles.  
“I wouldn't make it sound like a challenge, if I was you.”  
You chuckle, and he lets go with a grin, leaving you to hold yourself up through what you think might be pure willpower. Blood runs over your hand still and drips to the ground, drawing warm lines on your skin.  
And in front of you, he transforms.  
It's something you've never quite gotten used to, no matter how many times you see it. It's incredibly familiar, yet there's always something awe-inspiring to it even now, like your heart twists as his shape grows and shadows the sky. His eyes, first, black seeping into them even as the green at their core shines brighter, harsher, spreading to a sharp slit that homes in on you. And wings, then, bursting from his back as his shape seems to split, burst, shedding human semblance like a wax skin, and by the time they've spread his body has grown and looms over you, scales glistening deep, dark red, claws as large as your arms, legs settling on either side of you.  
He beats his largest wings once, as if shedding remains of skin from them, and leans down towards you, mouth against your body and eyes level with yours.  
He could do it right there and then, you realise. A little lurch forward, a bite around your head and upper half, and you're gone.  
You shiver and bring your bloody hand to caress his face.  
A chuckle's worth of wind caresses your body in response.  
“You look strangely eager.”  
You smear blood over his face, watch the streak catch on the finer scales near his lips.  
“I am.” A shiver. “Even through the fear.”  
He smiles, baring his teeth with it, and nudges you gently.  
“You know, I like when you admit that.”  
“At this point, it seems hard to deny it.” You pause, caress him with your other hand too. “… as scary as it is, it makes me happy to know that you want it too. … I wouldn't want to continue otherwise.”  
His tongue reaches forward to pet your stomach gently, wet and unnervingly hot.  
“Hey. It's all right.”  
“… it's also reassuring in a way.” You steel yourself, take a breath, and slide your hand into his mouth, against his tongue, letting your blood drip and spread over it. “I'd rather not stop halfway.”  
He lets out a shuddering breath.  
“You sure know how to talk to a dragon. Come on, then.” His weight shifts as he frees one hand from the ground and wraps it around you, the claw at the end of his thumb pressing against your stomach, just under the edge of your ribcage. “You know, I could do it like this too. Just press a bit and then hook up. It's not hard.”  
You shudder, letting your mind catch on the idea, on the image and sensations of his claw piercing you through and working its way up into your lungs and heart, of your body pinned and held up above the ground by the hook tearing into it, held into place only by your ribcage.  
You think about bleeding out and choking with him still inside you, about his eyes on you as you weaken.  
Lean into his hand for support.  
“You… could… technically.” _Breathe, Kouji, breathe._ “But…”  
“You really want to do it this way, huh?”  
You nod.  
“That aside… the same magic makes me resilient… It would take a lot of time and damage to kill me… In a way, it may be harsher than even this.”  
He watches you, then nods slightly and picks you up, tightening his hold around your chest while leaving your arms free. You bite your lip.  
“Okay,” he says as his thumb wraps around your body with the rest of his fingers. “Are you ready?”  
You chuckle, and it may have been close to a sob.  
“Despite what people think… I'm not sure one is ever quite ready for this… but go on. Please.”  
His lips press against the side of your head.  
“Okay.” A pause. “… Kouji?”  
“Hm?”  
“Promise me you'll come back.”  
He actually sounds vulnerable, for a second. You nuzzle back, heart skipping madly.  
“I promise. With everything I have.”  
A small sigh, and he presses back, lightly. Then tightens his hold, his eyes shining.  
“Give me your hand again.”  
Shakily, you bring your bloody hand into his mouth again. A purr rises from his throat, thick and heavy and fond, as he pulls you closer, until his teeth are a breath away from your cheek, hovering on either side of your shoulder.  
And he bites.

The first thing you notice as your mind frantically tries to assess your situation after you bit back a scream is that your arm is still attached, despite the pain crashing from your shoulder into the rest of your body. You can feel your fingers still; you know this because they _hurt_ , somehow, trembling inside his mouth as his teeth sink above your arm.  
You breathe hard and fast, desperate. He presses harder, deeper, spills blood all over your neck and chest, over his hand, over his teeth.  
He could have bitten right through in one go, you _know_ he could have, and yet here he is. Taking his time as you fall apart in fear and pain and anticipation.  
One of his teeth hooks into the joint and you barely have time to start sobbing before he clenches his jaw and snaps it, both rows of teeth snapping together with your arm on the other side.  
And you scream.  
You've had worse before. You've felt and seen worse before. And yet none of that matters right now, with the way his hand is still curled tight around you and stopping you from flinching away, but your legs and your arms—your _arm_ free to twitch and clench and grip at him as pain wrecks and numbs your body in waves. You're gasping, choking as the pain itself lodges itself inside your throat, presses against your lungs, sinks into your guts and makes your legs feel weak, shaky, melted.  
You can't feel your arm anymore.  
You feel the blood, though, spilling from the wound and onto the both of you, dripping onto the ground, feeding back the place that gave him such confidence. And as you finally go from screams to sobs, you can't help but be absently amused at the irony—that if you weren't cursed to begin with, just this much bloodloss would probably kill you before his teeth ever did.  
No such mercy for you.  
Good.  
He shifts his hand anyway, brings one of his fingers to press against the wound to slow it down. The pain is enough to make you scream again, a second of it before you fall back into wrecked sobs, eyes squeezing shut against it all.  
You can barely hold your head up, and you wish he could hold it too, keep it in place so you can just let go completely and let everything happen to you.  
“Kouji...”  
His voice reaches your ears and mind, gentle and blissed and softly nudging, caring. Checking up on you.  
“Kouji, look at me.”  
It's firm enough despite the gentleness that you open your eyes again, blinking pain out of them.  
He's staring at you silently, blood all over his face and the slits of his eyes on you like blades.  
You sob.  
“I'm… _I'm_...”  
“I've got you.”  
You nod, tearful, because yes. Yes he does, you know he does, you don't need to fight or _try_ anymore when he's holding you like that and your body hurts so much. There's nothing you can do anymore.  
He's got you.  
You let your head fall to the side a little, and all but sob in relief when he shifts his grip to let it lean against him.  
A soft rumble rises from his throat and into your body, warming you up and making you shiver.  
“C-Chrono...” you breathe out, voice weak from the screams and sobs.  
“Mmm. You're holding on well.” His lips press against your face again, the closest equivalent to a kiss. “Look.”  
He opens his mouth.  
You look. Inside, on his tongue, your severed arm is still waiting, carefully craddled with a pool of its blood. You sob again, a desperate noise close to a whimper if it wasn't for the way your lungs contract around it.  
“Haven't really tasted you yet,” he murmurs. “Wanted you to watch.”  
Your heart stops.  
It's an illusion, of course, a mere skip of a beat, but the world feels frozen as you understand what he's implying, what he's about to do. Despite everything, your body jerks a little at the thought, your breath speeding up again, harsh and frantic.  
You want to hide from the sight. You want to watch every fraction of second.  
“That's okay, right?” he asks. And then his voice gets breathier as it brushes against your mind. “This way, you'll be really sure.”  
Fighting to get your breath under control, you nod.  
“Good.”  
His tongue curls around your arm and moves, carrying it forward and nudging it towards his teeth, resting precariously on the slightly wider ones at the side. Your breath almost stops in anticipation, blood beating madly in your ears and at your brow.  
He bites down and his teeth break through, tearing then crushing, snapping bone and grinding flesh, and you whimper, your body trembling, and you don't know whether it's pain or blood loss or fear.  
Maybe it's all three.  
His teeth open slightly, blood seeping from between them, and then they close again, tearing what's left of your arm into shreds of flesh and shards of bone, and before you know it he's opened his mouth again, swiped at it with his tongue, and pulled the mess of meat and blood and bone into his mouth. Swallowed.  
You can't take your eyes away.  
You still can't look away as he moves back to you, purring affectionately, or when his tongue comes out to lick at the blood running over his hand and your body. At your face.  
“You taste good,” he breathes, and even through the dizziness you think he sounds a little dazed, excited. “I had no idea what to expect.”  
“I…” The words still fail you, lost to the pain and floating feeling that's wrapped around you. You realise your hand's been gripping his finger hard, and try to release it. “Chrono...”  
“It's okay.” He nuzzles. “Don't talk if you don't have to.”  
You nod, weakly, and somehow manage to will your hand into obeying you. From a mad reflexive grip, it relaxes slightly, just enough that you can rub fingers against his hand. Show him that his affection isn't purely one-sided.  
But even as you do that, your mind plays the same image again, watches your arm break under his teeth, and you shudder as you remember that it'll be you in a matter of minutes. Not just a piece, but everything you are, everything that's left. Cut to pieces by the front teeth or crushed by the back ones. You shiver.  
And somehow, the fear and knowledge of it soothes you, makes you weak and limp instead of making you struggle. Your body, your breath still jerk and hitch whenever your brain remembers, but there's no real impulse to run away.  
It's going to happen. Whether you want it or not.  
And you do want it.  
You want every shiver and every sob and you want to be too weak and helpless to fight or even scream anymore when it comes.  
“Kouji,” his voice comes again, quiet and careful and hungry. “The next part is gonna be harder. Should I skip it?”  
You swallow back your sobs, swallow your own saliva, and shake your head, eyes squeezing shut.  
“D-don't...”  
_Don't hold back_. You hope he gets it.  
His eyes stay fixed on you, unblinking, their green light bright against the dim lighting, reflecting of the red and black of his scales. And then another press of his lips against your head, quiet and gentle, and you breathe in relief, both at the tenderness and the understanding.  
“Okay. Hold on tight, then.”

He lifts you higher again, turning his hand so that you're almost horizontal, and pulls you closer, nudging one of your legs out of the way by hooking a finger under it. The other leg he takes into his mouth.  
You gulp. At first you expect his teeth to settle just after your hip, but as he moves you again, you realise that's not the case. You're angled sideways, following the row of teeth on the side of his mouth, and—  
Your breath catches. Completely involuntarily, your leg twitches a little, but you squeeze your eyes for a moment to get it under control. You know what he's about to do. And for better or for worse, he's given you warning.  
Slowly, as restrained as your breath is fast, his jaw closes, teeth lightly resting against the entire length of your leg. You want to bring your hand to your mouth to bite it or at least muffle the scream you know is about to come out, but it's once more latched to his finger and almost tetanised, the muscles too stiff and aching to move.  
His teeth squeeze your leg, rip, crush, and the cry that tears out of your throat is less of a scream and more of an exhausted, sobbing, desperate keen.  
You're crying.  
Not even the tears of pain that others have gotten out of you with similar drawn-out methods before, but the full-on, overwhelming sobs of a complete breakdown, the wailing cries of someone who is either completely alone, or in the arms of someone they love. It ripples through your entire body as you press your head to the finger supporting it, all strength leaving you, and only gets lighter and weaker as you feel—teeth, breaking through the wreckage of your leg again, grinding the remaining flesh, and you can still feel half of it, torn and splintered as it is, but another crush and everything under the knee goes blank. Another, and his teeth stay hooked on the upper part of your thigh, before he jerks you away, lightly by his scale but by far too much by yours, and you yell as the remaining flesh is torn away, as more blood spurts on his face from the lacerated remains of your thigh.  
If you hadn't already been wired by pain and fear, you might have fainted at the shock.  
Instead, you start breathing too fast and too hard, small gasps that leave you mute.  
Next to you, you're vaguely aware of him swallowing, but your head is already blanking, somehow both locked down and adrift.  
Air brushes over you as you're moved, fast. The world shakes. One of his fingers comes to press against your face, blocking off your mouth and nose.  
You panic. Breathe harder. Fail to. Feel your lungs strain and hurt and jerk, once. Shudder and finally calm down.  
Your head clears. Your lungs' attempts at breathing even out.  
He takes his finger away.

You breathe. Slowly, dizzily, and you feel so weak and tired, but all the strain that had been in you is gone. It hurts, every fragment of you that you can still feel, but it's so strong and blanketing that it's almost cozy, in its own way. Overwhelming. Overwriting.  
Your mind is drifting slightly, but your head feels clearer than it has in the last few minutes.  
Drowsily, you let your head roll to the side to look at him.  
He's staring at you, quiet and—you think—gentle. The his eyes light up when they meet yours, like he's happy to see you (but you were there the whole time?), and the finger that had been smothering you a few seconds ago comes to pet your head.  
“Hey,” he says quietly.  
You blink at him. Slowly.  
He pets you again.  
“Can't talk?” It's tender and careful and sharply focused, and you almost feel like nothing else exists in the world beside the numbing pain and his voice. The finger rubbing your hair. “It's okay. You don't have to.” A small smile, sweet and bloody. “You're doing really good, okay?”  
You let your eyes close again, for a second. Open them, slowly. Blink a second time, let your head roll just a little more to look further than his face—you're much higher up than you were, with him—sitting, maybe? Instead of the crouch he was in moments ago. His second hand curled close to you too. Protective. That's where the comforting finger comes from.  
His hands move again, and they're cradling you to the side of his head now. Close and tight and tender, and your body burnt through by the pain. You let your head rest into his hold. Weak.  
You're not sure where you start and where you end anymore.  
Your scalp gets gently nudged again.  
“I love you,” his voice comes. Your eyes open again. You're not sure when you closed them. “I love you.”  
You close them again. Your lips shift slightly, the corners pulling into something buzzing but relaxed.  
“Kouji.”  
You open your eyes.  
He's staring at you again, warm and intense. And before you know it, his bloody lips have pressed against your head.  
“… I'm gonna keep going. I'll try to take my time, but—you're not going to last too long.”  
You can't answer.  
But you don't need to.

 

Chrono

Whatever you'd expected out of the experience, this wasn't it.  
“This” being the serene feeling that settled into you halfway through, the rail your spine seems to have become that guides you, launched at a slow but unstoppable speed like a steam and magic powered train.  
All-consuming, inexorable and utterly natural, like an avalanche in slow motion.  
His taste, his blood are everywhere in your mouth, fragments of his body already sitting warm in your stomach, and you feel so connected to him you almost want to nibble away at little bits of him, tear away small portions of flesh like some would pepper kisses on their lover's neck.  
Like _you_ usually mix kisses and words and little bites on his.  
You were scared before, and that fear is still lurking underneath, you know, but right now your heart is swollen with affection and need and hunger, an all-consuming need to be one with him, a febrile yearning to slowly take him apart in the most literal sense.  
You want to taste him again and again, to fill your mouth with him, to feel the way his body snaps and tears and yields to yours.  
You don't know how you got there. You don't know how you're going to feel about it afterwards. But you know that now, _right now_ , you love it, him, and you're not sure you can really separate the two.  
You hold him in your hands, carefully, and the fact that he's still alive despite all the blood he's lost, the fact that even that has slowed down faster than it should for any normal human, soothes away at the fear in your chest. Whatever is tying him to this world like a chain stitched into his soul is still there.  
Still, even his unusually resilient body won't last forever. You can already see it in the dazed way his eyes follow you, in the shivers he doesn't even seem conscious of.  
And he looks—wonderful like that, even if the thought tries to nudge guilt at you like a needle. Dazed and pliant, his mouth only vaguely open, his body torn and unwound in your hold. And his eyes. Like a magnet, following you however you move, however you move _him_ , observing with an expression that might seem empty but looks, feels loving, quiet.  
If you were in human shape, you'd kiss him deep and hard and slow, again and again, just to feel him almost motionless against your body and tongue, the only hint of movement the way he yields to you.  
Just to let _him_ feel your passion and the way your heart beats for him, the way he awakens thirst and power in you like nothing else ever has.  
Some have called you a god, and you think it's bullshit, but he almost makes you feel like it.  
“Kouji...”  
You whisper his name and take hold of his leg, and want pierces through your heart like a spear again. Because it's almost limp in your hold, just following wherever you guide it, and it makes your hunger rise again.  
You can manipulate him freely like a marionette, and the thought should not be as exciting as it is.  
You bring him to your mouth again. Why this feels like bending down for a kiss you're not sure you understand.  
He doesn't fight back when you pull his leg into your mouth, doesn't squirm as you wrap your tongue around it. But you know he's watching and conscious, and _eager_ in a strange way, because when you do, his hips shift ever so slightly, extending the leg better for your tongue to pull it in. And you could almost moan at the sweetness of it.  
Slowly, you start pulling your tongue back, aligning his leg with your teeth. It doesn't move away, barely shifting to what you assume is a more comfortable position.  
Your heart hitches and you bite down, fingers tightening on him instinctively. Blood bursts into your mouth like a bursting fruit already, but you hum lightly and keep going, chewing on it, on him, again. And maybe you shouldn't _like_ it but you do, from the taste to the feeling of his bones breaking and splintering to the choked, whimpering sobs he's letting out. You suck on the mess of his leg to draw as much of the taste as you can, to enjoy as much as you can everything that he's giving you, because you don't want a single drop or second to go to waste when he's surrendering so much, giving you something so utterly senseless.  
And yet, in a strange way, it makes sense, the same way paying with a little dropped blood your respect and price to the place you're borrowing makes sense. And you won't pretend you don't get a fierce simmering satisfaction at the idea of reclaiming this thing that has weighed him down for so many years, of putting your own mark on it.  
He is no longer a toy for another god to use and discard and revive at will. And if you have to make him yours for that? Well, you will.  
You bite down again, hard, and tear away the remains not far below the hip, and lower him and catch his eyes to finish chewing on it.  
He's staring drowsily up, and meets your eyes when you come into his line of sight. Crying, but subdued, and leaning into your hold.  
You swallow and hum, almost helplessly, at the feelings of fondness and yearning he wakes in your chest.  
“Kouji...”  
You want to protect him, to consume him, to know every little thing there is to discover about him, tease apart the barriers of his mind like you do those of his body. You want to keep him safe, at all costs, and somehow this is part of it, this exploration of his vulnerability that he wanted to much, and you think you understand why, now, why the complete helplessness he's surrendered to is something he'd want to rewrite and claim as his own.  
You're breaking him apart, literally instead of metaphorically for once, and you put your everything into it so you can help him build himself back from the ill-fitted pieces he's lived with for so long.  
He blinks, slowly, and you give up restraint, move to his arm straight away and bite, crushing it once before severing it cleanly at the base, and he chokes, wordlessly, gasps that make his whole body shudder as he stares up, eyes slightly hooded.  
You readjust your grip to cover the bleeding roots of his limbs and cuddle him to your chest.  
His breath hits your scales, and suddenly you're feeling scared again. He feels so small like this, and it's both endearing and terrifying.  
You don't want to lose him.  
But he's already almost gone, in the state he's in, and that was part of your plan. There's no going back now, with his limbs missing and him barely holding himself on this side of consciousness. The only way is forward.  
You take a deep breath to ground yourself and look down at him.  
There's so little of him left, when he's usually so tall, and without his limbs he looks even thinner than usual. Frail, even, despite all the strength you know he has. He fits in your hand perfectly like that, enough that you could close your fist to hide him completely or crush him.  
It's not like he'd fight back. Not in the state he's in right now, dazed and lightly shaking and deprived of the limbs he could have fought with.  
And yet despite all that there's something that's still powerfully _him_ about all this, a way his feelings remain even when so much has been taken away, and you know the way he gives in to you right now isn't just the physical exhaustion of his body. And that is strength too, the will and passion he puts into everything, even submission.  
He's being so strong right now, by letting himself be weak, by allowing you to tear him apart, and you wonder if you've said it, shown it enough, if he _knows_.  
You're not sure you can put it in words right now, but you want to tell him again and again when you finally have him whole in your arms again.  
You try to tell him a little anyway.  
“You're doing really well,” you whisper, bringing him up to your face again. “I'm proud of you, okay?”  
He blinks, slowly. You hope it means he got it.  
“Really really proud,” you murmur, and you know it's almost a mumble but it doesn't matter.  
You want to hold him like this longer. But you know he doesn't have much time. And you promised him you'd do it yourself.  
“… let's do this,” you whisper, and your heart lurches at the way his eyes light up in recognition but his body doesn't try to move away.  
Two bites, you tell yourself. Just two bites.

You shift him in your hand, supporting his back with your fingers while your thumb presses on his chest, keeping him safely secured. His breath shakes under your thumb, lungs moving slowly and shakily, but you only grip him a little tighter, the best attempt at reassurance you can think of right now. Blood starts running again as the pressure on his torn-off limbs lifts, and you catch most of it in your mouth as soon as you can, bringing him between your lips already.  
For the first time in several minutes, you hear a small whimper.  
You bite into him, hard, and his spine snaps under the impact. The taste of blood, of flesh, of everything else fills your mouth and you cling to him as his chest jerks in choked, almost silent gasps, and you have to close your eyes for a second to ground yourself, because you're shaking too, a mix of fear and excitement and just the intensity of it all.  
You know you whimpered too, like an echo of his own, and it takes you a few seconds to let the shudder run along your spine and open your eyes again, pulling him away and within view as you finally start chewing.  
The sight of his remaining chest and head makes you shudder again, and the helpless, open-mouthed way he stares back at you makes your heart stumble and your breath hitch. He's—scared, you can see that much in his eyes, even like this, terrified but resigned, and his chest is still jerking here and there but it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Not this close. What matters is the tension you feel between the two of you, the way he reacts, ever so subtly, to your every movement, to behind held, the yearning you feel for him, the way you're waiting, you know, for each other.  
You want to remember the feeling. And the way he looks, right now, cut in two and bleeding into your hand and scared and completely surrendered.  
You swallow. First just the tightness in your throat, then what was left of his flesh in your mouth, and move closer to him again, trying to control your hesitation, the shaking in your breath.  
“Here we go...” A pause, and it slips out: “— _I love you_.”  
His eyes flutter close in what you hope is acknowledgement, but his chest still moves. Letting him brush against your lips, you nudge him into your mouth with your fingertips. Wonder if he can feel them trembling.  
Start closing your jaw, one of your fangs already biting into his chest.  
Close your eyes.  
_Take everything,_ you remind yourself, fervently. _Take everything he's given you. Don't let it go to waste._  
You pierce through his chest, take a fraction of second to wonder at how the answering jerk makes your heart flutter, and bite down completely. Bone crushes and splinters. Blood spreads, mixing with your saliva, with the taste of him already there. The faint hum of his presence on your other, less human senses flickers.  
To your relief, it doesn't blink out like you expected, instead fluttering and fading out, as if in the distance. Already a different from the natural order of things. A hope that things will indeed go as planned.  
You let out a small sob, grudging relief unwinding your too-tense muscles, and let yourself finish this, enjoy it as much as you can, now that your worst fear is at least a little bit soothed.

It feels… strange, to be feeling this alone. Up to now, every one of your sensations would have been matched by one of his own. But the flesh inside your mouth now cannot feel, not anymore, and it feels a little lonely.  
You breathe in, let your lungs fill, and chew again, letting his taste spread in your mouth. It's intimately familiar by now, and you wonder if you'll be tempted in the future, to take just a bite sometimes, just to taste him again.  
Or maybe it'll be the opposite.  
You let the remains of flesh and bone and brain brush over your tongue. Slowly let it slide, swallow. Shiver when it settles in your stomach.  
The feeling, the knowledge of his body being there, is its own kind of strange satisfaction.  
You sigh.  
It's both contentment and aimless restlessness, and maybe a bit of loneliness too. When you go back on all fours and lower your head to the ground, the grass still smells like his blood. It'll be absorbed soon, you know, especially here, but in the meantime, the familiar scent brings you comfort.  
You don't want to transform straight away and lose the feeling of him inside you, so you lie down, head resting next to the blood-stained grass, and let yourself slowly drift off.

You wake up up feeling cold.  
Not in any physical sense; the place is mild, your dragon form is more resilient to pesky things like temperature, and ever since you've come back, you've found that you have an uncanny tendency to not feel the effects of things like heat or cold, or sometimes even pain, unless you've thought about them or realised you should be feeling them. But it feels cold in a weary, lonely, vulnerable way, like a shiver that lodges itself into your very bones, too deep to reach or soothe.  
The blood on the grass has all but disappeared, but the scent hangs in the air, dizzyingly sweet to your senses, and it makes your breath shake as everything comes back to you. His taste, the feeling of his bones breaking under your teeth, his eyes when he looked at you. The feeling of his flesh still freshly settled into your stomach.  
You shiver. Somehow it makes you feel a little sick, but not a real nausea: instead, the sensation seems lodged into your throat and heart. And yet, at the same time, the memories bring you warmth.  
You remember how close you felt, with your teeth sinking into him, with your mouth wrapped around his body. And in a sense, you miss that closeness just as much as you miss him now.  
You shudder again. The loneliness feels wrapped around your spine, your wings. You miss him, and no matter how much you tell yourself that you felt his curse at play, you can't help the claw of fear that's hooked itself into your stomach. You want to see him. You _want to see him_ and hold him close to your heart and bury your face into his hair.  
You breathe in, shakily, and try to force the feeling aside. If not the yearning, at least the panic that comes with it.  
_He'll be fine_ , you repeat in your own head. _He'll be fine._  
You swallow and let yourself turn back to human.  
Your limbs and awareness settle into the somewhat more familiar form, and with them, your senses dull slightly. Not enough to stop smelling blood altogether, but enough that it doesn't get to your head as much. You breathe in, slow and deep. Steel yourself.  
Pick up the bag with his clothes, and walk out of the clearing.

No one bothers you as you enter the inn. That's something you've noticed, too, that when you really want people to react a certain way, they do. It makes you uncomfortable, and most of the time you keep a tight rein on it, but right now, it's only a relief. You give the inkeeper a kind word and a tip, announce yourself under the fake name you and Shion agreed on, and go up to the room you're pointed to.  
Tokoha is the one to open the door, and the first thing she does as she sees your face is to hug you, before she even says a word.  
“You idiot,” she finally mutters, sliding a hand into your hair when you press your face to her shoulder. “C'mon, get in. I'll get us some tea.”

Half an hour later, you're seated at the small table with her, a cup of nicely strong tea sitting in front of you. There's a little plate, too, of jerky rather than biscuits, and the detail would make you smile if you weren't feeling so numb. What a pair the two of you make, indeed. And yet, somehow, sometimes you think Shion is worse than the both of you.  
You've made good friends. Brave and questionable and ready to fight with everything they have to secure a future. Not just for them but for everyone else.  
You love them.  
“You know—” she starts, but then shakes her head, snorting softly. “I was about to make a comment about the inn's food, but then I realised it might not be the best moment.”  
You chuckle. It's half-hearted, but it's there, and you're grateful.  
“And yet you said it anyway.”  
“Well it did make you laugh!”  
You smile, just faintly. You're not sure whether you're forcing it at this point or whether it's real and just feels strained because you're tired.  
Tokoha watches you in silence.  
“… are you okay?” she finally asks.  
“… I'll be fine. I think.” You sigh. “I did… feel something strange when he… left.” You swallow. “So I think it's okay.” Another breath, deeper, to keep yourself calm. “I have to think it'll be okay.”  
Silently, she slides a hand towards you on the table. You take it. Squeeze.  
“Want to talk about it?”  
“I don't know.” She squeezes again. “… it was nice. I dunno how to feel about that.”  
“Feel that it was nice. That was the point, wasn't it?”  
“… only part of it.”  
“Right.” A pause. “I'm still amazed you went through with it. I'm...” Her unaffected demeanour falters, her voice a little less stable. “I'm not sure I could have.”  
You smile, weakly.  
“How could I _not_?” You sigh. “… I love him, Tokoha.”  
“I know.”  
“… I feel numb.”  
And cold. And empty. But at least you're not hating yourself to the point where you want to die, which is good, you guess.  
After a few moments of watching you, she squeezes your hand again.  
“Come on. Drink your tea, it'll help.”  
You nod, get your hand back, and pick up the cup.  
It's just on the right edge of bitter, and the taste makes you feel a little more awake.  
“… it's good.”  
She grins.  
“Right? I'm glad Shion's informants have even information like this.”  
“What, which inns have the best tea?”  
“Among other things, yeah.”  
“… where's Shion, anyway?”  
“He'll be back this evening. He had to go check something, but since we got your signal I stayed around to make sure we wouldn't miss you.”  
“… thanks.”  
She smiles.  
“Don't mention it. We said we would.”  
You nod. There's a thousand other things you want to say, but nothing comes out of your throat, and your mind feels so detached. Like it's in another world—or another time.  
You run your thumb along the rim of the cup.  
“… how long does it usually take?” she asks, gentle.  
“He said three days.”  
“Do you want us to come with you?”  
You shake your head.  
“No, I—” You wince. “… I'd rather be alone. Either way.”  
She frowns.  
“You better keep us posted then.”  
She's worried. It makes you feel kinda bad, but in a distant way you can't quite connect to.  
“ _Chrono!_ ”  
“I—” You sigh. “I promise.”  
“Good.” She huffs. “Now drink your tea. And eat something. You can't just stop feeding yourself until he comes back.”  
“I'm not...” _hungry_ , but you know she's right. You sigh and pick up one of the pieces of jerky from the plate.  
It tastes good, but bland, and brings back too many memories. You eat it anyway.  
You wonder if you'll always be comparing to him, now.  
Silence settles. It's heavy, like the feeling of magic in the air, but that's almost a comfort. You're finding it hard to talk anyway.  
But you're glad you're not alone.  
“… do you want to go do something with us tomorrow?”  
“… I dunno. Maybe I'll just read.” You try to smile. “I'll be glad to be with you two this evening, though.”  
She only smiles back faintly, but you think she understands.

 

Chrono, Three Days Later

You feel the shift in the fabric of reality as soon as you set foot past the first wet, darkened strands of grass. Before, you would have chalked it up to a change in the air, maybe. Now, you can feel the ground's, the plants' very loyalties change, the way magic hangs in the air even in its master's absence.  
Most normal humans would be too chilled and turn away. And many magic folk would know better than to set foot even near it.  
As for you, you are technically immune to its effects. But you know enough about etiquette to suspect that while simply crossing another's territory isn't forbidden, doing anything to it could easily lead you into the kind of conflict you really don't want to participate in. Especially with your nature and status still so unsure.  
The last thing you want is for an angry, spiteful god to see you as a rival.  
Not that you don't see him as one, for one very specific thing.  
So you can cross, but you take care with every step not to disturb the land, not to interact with the few inhabitants you can glimpse.  
The slightly shrivelled grass makes way to an almost bog-like landscape, the ground squelshing under your feet. It doesn't quite sink, but doesn't quite hold either, moving just enough to make walking uncomfortable. The magic in the air simmers, swirls. It parts lightly as you move, brushing past just short of touching your skin, like it's purposefully avoiding you rather than running against a ward. You fight back the urge to speed up. Nothing good will come of it.  
You keep walking forward. In the distance, you see a small rise, and trees, dark and low-hanging, knotted trunks almost twisting into each other. Your heart follows suit, tightening with hope and apprehension. You keep your legs steady by force of will, and make your way there, every minute that passes pulling at your nerves until you just want to run.  
You reach the trees. Duck past their low, tangled branches and swerving trunks. They're just far apart enough to allow a human to come through, with a bit of effort. With your small frame, it's easy, but you feel a splinter of resentment at the idea that he has to cross this every time, alone.  
The trees start thinning, and you bite your lip, heart straining.  
And he's there.  
You don't see him, at first, with the way the magic hangs thick around him. But there his shape is, on the ground, slightly curled up. You almost let out a sob, frozen in place even as your heart wants so badly to rush to him.  
“Kouji...”  
You're afraid of breaking the spell, of corrupting whatever magic is bringing him back by touching him.  
You're afraid he'll dissolve into your very hands.  
Your breath shakes.  
His eyes flutter.  
Heart staggering, you take a single step forward, calling his name again.  
“ _Kouji_!”  
It sounds desperate and kind of broken but you don't care, you'd grovel if it would help, you just want to see recognition in his eyes, to hear his voice, to—  
You bite back a sob.  
His eyes flutter again, and slowly his head turns towards you. You hold your breath.  
He shakily holds out his hand to you, and the magic around him dissipates, leaving him in full view, his naked body lying on the grass. You sob, rush the few remaining steps to him, and fall to your knees next to him, catching his hand with both of yours.  
Tears fall over them, and you realise you're crying.  
“… Chrono...”  
His voice is weak, barely a breath, but it's enough to make you grin through your tears, to press his hand to your cheek and bend down to cup his, comb his hair out of his face and slide just the tips through his roots as your palm rests against his cheek.  
“I'm here,” you all but sob out, quietly. “I'm here.” And weakly, in a whisper. “I love you.”  
You press your forehead to his and breathe in the scent of him alive.  
His fingers curl against your cheek.  
“… that's my line,” comes the weakened but slightly amused response.  
You burst into laughter through your tears, gripping his head tighter and rocking slightly.  
“You ass… I was scared, okay?”  
He smiles, small but warm.  
“I know...”  
You close your eyes and lace your fingers with his.  
“… Chrono?”  
“Mm?”  
“… thank you.”  
You breathe out, half a chuckle.  
“Don't mention it...”  
His head shifts a bit, and you open your eyes to see him shaking it.  
“It means… a lot to me.” His fingers squeeze. “And thank you… for coming to get me.”  
“Did you think I'd leave you behind?”  
“No… but having it really happen… gives it weight. It's easier.”  
You nod.  
A sigh, light and comfortable, and he tilts his head up to kiss you.  
You gasp. It's so rare for him to initiate, and never gratuitous, and this one is so light and tender that you almost forget to breathe. And then he smiles into it, and it's all you can do to stay stable as you take hold of his head with both hands to kiss him back, light at first, and then deep as the desperation of the last few days unwinds, making you shake and cling.  
He's smiling, warm and abandoned, when you finally make yourself break away, and all this might have been worth it after all.  
You slide an arm under his shoulders to pull him up and lean him against your chest.  
“I can't stay here for too long… let's get you home.” He nods silently, face resting comfortably against your shoulder. “… we can talk about all this there.”  
This time, it's him who reaches for your hand.  
“I think I second that idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to anyone who actually read this far. Comments are very much appreciated.


End file.
